Dies Irae, Dies Requiem
by Fleur d'Elise
Summary: Here, he stops. Inches from the precipice, miles from the ground, and never before this close to ecstasy. Oneshot, Leroux-based.


Author's Note: Hello! This is my first attempt at fanfiction. Any criticism is welcome, especially with regards to spelling and grammar. This is supposed to be a short "what-they-were-thinking" piece set during my favorite scene. The title is supposed to mean "Day of Wrath, Day of Rest," but I'm no Latin expert, so correct me if I'm wrong. I hope you enjoy, and please review!

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Gaston Leroux

Alone she sits. She is erect and unafraid. Golden hair frames a face that is calm and resigned. This young woman is beautiful, innocent, and defiantly naïve, despite every circumstance, every experience that has conspired to change this simple component of her nature. But for all her innocence, Christine Daaé is no child. Tonight she is a living bride. She waits, and she thinks, and for the first time in many months, she feels no terror.

Alone, he stands. This man is Erik. He is not a ghost, and he is not an angel. At the moment, he is not a demon either. He is Erik. He is afraid. The door he faces is thick and solid and silent. His life is on the other side. The door opens with barely a touch, and she is still there, but he is still afraid. They stare. Christine cannot move, and Erik cannot think, but they can both remember.

* * *

"Angel?" Christine's tone quavered, and her face was flushed. She was nearing eighteen years of age, but seemed much, much younger.

"Yes, child?" replied the Voice, soft and ethereal. Christine gave a tiny sigh at its familiar beauty.

"Play '_The Resurrection of Lazarus_' once more for me," she pleaded. The Voice gave a gentle chuckle.

"Anything for you, my dear, anything at all…"

For the hundredth time, Christine was lulled to sleep by the music of her angel.

* * *

A step. Erik moves toward Christine, slowly, and only a little! And still she meets his gaze. He can see she is alive, and real, and the most perfect creature on this godforsaken planet. He hazards another step.

* * *

Christine uttered a quiet sigh, and immediately the dark figure on the bench before her swung around to focus every ounce of his attention on her discontented expression.

"What is it?" Erik's tone was so urgent; she might have just let out a blood-curdling scream. Startled, Christine took a step back and gave a stuttering explanation.

"W-well…It's…it's just …We've been singing for quite some time."

"Yes?"

"I've been here for eight days, and we have done nothing but play and sing."

"And?" he prompted, his masked face blank and his tone faintly irritated with this repetitious observation. What better way to spend a week, than immersed in music?

"I merely wondered if we couldn't rest a bit…perhaps do…something else." Erik's anger was swift and incomprehensible.

"I suppose your Vicompte could have provided a veritable plethora of amusements in this amount of time. Restaurants and teas and parties! Oh yes, how _inane_ does the occupation of music seem when compared to an evening among all the disdainful peacocks Paris has to offer! Where is your focus, Christine?" His voice rang with accusation, and she felt guilty, though she knew she had done nothing wrong.

"I simply-"

"You may retire to bed. Now."

Ordinarily, Christine would have scampered to her bedroom, angry and frightened. Tonight, though, some unknown force presented her with a courage she could not understand, and she stood rooted to the thick Persian carpet beneath her delicately slippered feet. Of its own accord, her hand brushed Erik's shoulder lightly, fingers barely grazing the immaculate black suit coat. Erik felt it, though. His whole body stiffened, and his mind took a few extra moments to register her next words.

"One more song."

* * *

Close now. So close! Erik's knees tremble, but he stays on his feet and takes yet another step, more timid than a little child. Christine does not run away. Is it Erik's imagination? Or does she put out her forehead? Not much…only a little…

* * *

Confusion. Guilt. Terror. These are none of them things one should feel when one is newly engaged to a handsome young noble, Christine was sure of it. Yet on this night, as she lay sleepless in bed, probing her heart, she discovered there was little else to be found within her. Outside the window, the wind howled in agony. As she drifted into a restless slumber, one mournful word was discernable…

"Christine…"

* * *

Here, he stops. Inches from the precipice, miles from the ground, and never before this close to ecstasy.

* * *

"Erik! I have turned the scorpion!"

For one blessed moment, the chaos ceased. Then, the hiss of fire…No, the hiss of water. It continued for some time, until yet more cries could be heard from within the torture chamber.

"Erik! Erik! That is water enough for the gun-powder! Turn off the tap! Turn off the scorpion!" No reply came. Erik had been staring into space, his horrid face utterly expressionless, since her earlier exclamation. "Erik, I swear to you, as I hope to be saved, I will be your _living wife_!"

Slowly, solemnly his head turned, and bottomless black depths met Christine's crystal eyes. Her gaze did not falter.

"You mean it."

"Yes."

Mechanically, Erik's impossibly long arm reached up and pulled some hidden lever. The sound of rushing water was cut off abruptly. Christine should have flown to the window of the torture chamber. She should have sobbed to see her half-drowned lover limp and listless, as if dead. But she simply stood, one thought only at the forefront of her mind.

_I will be your living wife…_

* * *

Erik can control himself no longer. He bends down. With infinite care, wretched heart in his throat, tears already leaking from seemingly empty sockets, he presses his lips, such lips as he has, to Christine's forehead. A moment, an eternity of rapture! Then he jumps back, as if burnt. But she is still alive. Still alive, and smiling…Smiling! Sadly, and with pity, but smiling all the same, and when he collapses at her feet, crying, she too cries. Unthinking, he rips off his mask to taste her tears. And she does not die! And neither does Erik, though in the next moments he is quite certain he will perish from love and happiness. For the first time, he is kissed by a woman. She kisses his forehead as if he was any other man, and holds him in her arms, and says, "Poor Erik! Poor, unhappy Erik!" It is too much. He pulls away.

"There!...Take it!...It is for you…and him…My wedding present to you both!"

Stunned, Christine can only stare at the plain golden ring resting in her palm.

"What do you mean?"

"You do not love me…I am a dog, a poor dog ready to die for you. You do not love me! Go away from here…Go with your boy…don't cry anymore!"

Numbness. Christine does not know how long she has been standing with her eyes fixed on the tiny object in her fingers, which seems to grow heavier by the second. When at last she raises her head, Erik is no longer before her, but she can hear his grief from the next room.

A desperate plea…a demonic plan…a day of wrath. A gentle lullaby…a kind word…a soft touch.

Christine has turned the scorpion.

Christine has chosen Erik.

With a mind clear and untroubled, Christine slips the ring on her finger and approaches Erik's door. Her life is on the other side.

"Erik…I will be your living wife."


End file.
